Forever Winter
by Ethan Alpert
Summary: When Gotham freezes over and power plants are annihilated, the mayor and council force a citywide evacuation, leaving one man left to investigate the desolate metropolis.


"This morning on Gotham Insider: the cold wave shows no signs of stopping as Gotham sees record lows. Another oil repository explosion, bringing the count of ruined fuel stores to seven and leaving ninety percent of Gotham without power. And chimneys continue to erupt across the city, prompting the mayor to make a statement reminding steadfast residents to open your flumes when using your fireplace."

Bruce Wayne sits at the batcave's primary computer terminal. He stares at twelve stacked monitors. The screens flash images from Gotham's local news stations. Ten of the twelve show nothing but static. The other two report from buildings outside of the city limits.

He wears layers of sweaters and a thick wool trench draped over his shoulders. He rubs his arms with mitted hands and breathes frost.

The metal door to Wayne Manor slides up. Alfred shivers as cold air rushes past. "Sir, you should consider opening a west coast office."

"This weather is unnatural."

"What's unnatural is you sitting in an unheated cave when there's a perfectly good fire burning in the house. Even the bats have left this ice chest."

"Did you hear the news?"

"I've been trying to avoid reports of the weather."

"Another oil repo was blown. That leaves two to fuel what's still on the grid. I have a chance of catching him now."

"And what good would that do?"

"The city-"

"Is gone. Most of the residents left after the second explosion. Soon you'll only be left with reporters, criminals, and penguins. Even if you caught the man responsible, you wouldn't have a jail to turn him over to. They transferred everyone out of primary yesterday. I'm sorry, sir, but you should take a hint from your winged friends."

Wayne exhales into his mitted hands. "I won't let this city go to ruin."

"What city?"

Wayne rises from his chair and moves towards the batmobile, mindful of each step on the metal driveway. The bottom trim of his coat brushes the peaks off tiny mounds of ice pockmarked across the floor. "Don't joke."

"I'm not kidding."

Wayne grabs a jack and pumps the lever to raise a side of the batmobile. "My parents fought to protect this city. I can't just leave it because the weather doesn't agree with me."

"Your parents protected the people. If the city evacuated, they'd go too. There's much more you can do for people when they're actually there."

Wayne jerks a tire off its axle and rolls it towards Alfred. Alfred sighs and guides it to the side of the cave.

"There are still people in the city."

"Yes. There are. But outside the limits the suburbs are teeming. They're confined. They're scared. They need someone to help."

A metal crash echos through the cave as Wayne slams a chain laced snow tire onto the empty spoke. He reverses the jack and pumps the car down. "You know what criminals have outside of Gotham? Nothing. All their clubs, all their guns, all their trash empires they burned into the city walls. They're all gone. They're frozen in place, waiting to thaw." Wayne slams the lever under the front of the car and scratches the glossy black paint. "There'll be crime in the suburbs. But it'll be petty. The worst are enjoying the distraction and plotting their grand return." He presses down hard, but his mitts slip off the grip and the lever jams into his chin. He rubs it and pushes down again. "You're right. They'll take advantage of the confusion. But they'll do it on the return. On their own ground." He rolls another tire behind him. "The city must be protected."

The tire stops at Alfred's feet. He eyes the tread. "I beg your forgiveness, sir. I believe that you are correct. I don't imagine they will be able to function outside of Gotham."

"Don't patronize me." Wayne pops the hood of the batmobile. It jams.

Alfred walks over and fingers his brow. "Looks like I might have an ally."

Wayne eyes the ceiling, the icicles threatening, but too cold to fall. He slips his hands under the hood and wrenches. His back arches and his heels dig into the ground between the small frozen mounds littered across the floor.

"Some hot water may help."

His trench slips off as he leans back for leverage. The hood flies open with a click. Wayne's hands shoot to the sky and his legs slip out from under him.

Alfred steps around him and reaches for the dipstick. Ice crackles as he slides it out, the oily black rod gleaming with crystals. He drops it back in and reaches his arm out to Wayne. "I wouldn't dare check your coolant."

Wayne snags Alfred's hand and lifts off the ground.

###

Black ice covers the streets. The batmobile grinds into it with chain-laced tires. The car's floodlights spill bright yellow onto the ice's surface. Faint flecks of bloated salt reflect the light from below the ice.

The radio plays over a layer of static.

"Gotham Radio One. Radio One. Hey there all you snow men and bunnies out there. It's Gotham Radio One here, stealing all those waves from lawfully paying corporations to bring you the creamy scoop that's skating in our crystal castle of a city. This here's your host without a coat, Abominable, broadcasting outside the bounds of that frozen river cause if my lips freeze then I can't shower you with drops of truth. After those reports of Olympic level freeze shattering weather temps in the city yet again, I bet you all caught the explosion of news that another repo was blown sky high."

Flurries of snow and darkness paint the looming buildings black. The batmobile's lights fade at two stories, leaving the city cut short and rising into a sky of nothing.

Cars line the streets, bundles of parking tickets frozen to the windows.

The batmobile inches towards the upper west side's oil repository.

"With that story nothing but smithereens, I'm here to tell you something that's skated by those summer reporters. See, badges're snow shoeing it out there trying to track down missing persons. Find those buried beneath the avalanche. The flakes of stats they piled though show something that they've covered in the snow. Eighty percent, yes, that's right, snowman zero percent, of those missing persons, they're bunnies. And I don't know many bunnies that like making snow angels without a devil by their side."

Batman eyes the grey and black canvas through the windows. There's no movement besides the falling snow.

Trash is glued to the ground and sidewalk. Posters declaring a city-wide evacuation stick to walls, cars, doors, poles, phone booths, and benches. Half of the posters defaced. The image of a snowman with a black tophat and an orange knife in one branch arm watching every corner.

The batmobile crosses midtown. Cracks in the road grow larger. Kicked up gravel crunches beneath the tires. Between the gravel comes a metalic grinding. It's presence faded, on the cusp of hearing.

Batman stops the car. Turns the radio's volume knob to zero. He listens.

Flecks of ice ping against of the window of the batmobile. Soft gusts of wind roll pebbles of gravel, crinkling against the ice. Nothing else.

Batman flips on a tablet embedded into the front console. The engine spins in the image, and gives readouts of each component at Batman's tap. Pistons clear, oil lethargic but flowing, gas reserves topped off. Everything checks out.

He starts the car again. The engine revs back to life. Batman accelerates to twenty five miles per hour.

The sound doesn't return. Batman notches the volume of the radio back up. Abominable's voice the only noise present.

"I got myself a little excited there. I may need a frosty just to chill out. Slurp."

The batmobile cuts around Gotham Park. Trees line its edge, an erie set of upside-down icicles. Spikes hang from their limbs, but don't fall.

"So we can't blame Abominable, no, not for this one. And I sure as heck am not blaming global warming for Gotham cooling. That'd color me blue as a politician. I think it's a weather God. Someone that likes it cold and wants a city-sized skating rink all to himself."

Batman gazes into the park. The flowers lining the sidewalks frozen in half-withered states. Freshly fallen leaves iced to fences and benches. A jungle gym with rods of ice between its bars. A swingswet rocks back and forth.

Batman stops the car. He stares at the swing. A dark pile of cloth attached to the end pendulates.

He opens the door and steps out. A rush of wind sends shivers through his veins. His blood hesitates and his brain jerks to a halt. His arm shoots out to prop him against the car, and the blood flows again.

The car's lights shut off, leaving the world pitch. Batman's eyes try to adjust to the darkness, but his pupils can't suck in any light. Just darkness. Old friend.

He creeps towards the creaking of the metal chains. Back and forth, back and forth, the swing persists.

It grows louder, and Batman crunches the snow in front of him, all freshly packed, all threatening to leave him slipping to the ground.

His foot catches the edge of a supporting pole. He starts to fall, but regains his balance, his arm tangled in the chain of an empty swing. It rattles. He pulls down hard to stop it.

Nothing again.

"Hello?"

Batman reaches for his utility belt. Grabs a flashlight and turns it on in front of him.

The light shines on a child with arms oustretched to block the light. Batman jerks the head of the flashlight down and it converts into a lantern.

"You're that man that's a bat at night, right? Like Dracula?"

"Not quite."

"Don't bats hibernate in the winter or something?"

Batman looks over each shoulder. Listens to the light breeze. Noone and nothing. "What's your name?"

"Jay."

"Jay sounds like a boy's name."

"Do I look like a boy?"

Her hair's cut short, and what's left of it blends into the world around her. She wears enough layers to be as wide as she is tall. She comes up to Batman's waist. Snow clamps to her outermost shell, a thick synthetic men's topcoat. It's tight against her other layers, but its length drags at her feet.

"Where are your parents?"

"Westfield Cemetery. Least that's what they told me."

"Where do you live?"

"Anywhere outside of a cemetery."

"Why're you out here?"

"I never get a chance to use the swings. Bobby and Johnny always get to them first. They're a half foot taller than me, and their legs are longer. I can't keep up."

"But why're you here, in Gotham. Everyone's gone."

"I thought so too. Did you just wake up or something?"

"What?"

"From hibernation. It's early though. Is it still fall?"

Batman opens and closes his left hand. He shivers.

"You know, you should really wear more layers. I've got five on right now. I've been adding about a coat a week since the snow started. Next week I'll be wrapped in Chubby Teddy's leftover pillowy sack. I still can't believe he left it, but outside the city's supposed to be a bit warmer."

Batman looks back to the batmobile, and to Jay.

"Did you live with Teddy?"

"Yeah. For the last three years. At least until he left with the others."

"And where is that?"

"Eighty sixth and eighth. Big red building. Kinda old. Made of bricks."

"C'mon. I'll take you back."

Jay backs up. Sits back down on a swing and starts pumping her legs."

"Why should I?"

"It's not safe out here. Not alone."

"You're alone."

Batman turns away. Trudges back towards the street.

"Fine. Stay here. Don't ride in the batmobile."

###

Jay props her legs on the dash and reclines one hundred and eighty degrees in the passenger seat.

"You drive like a bus driver. This thing go any faster?"

"Do you know why bus drivers don't speed?"

"Yeah, cause they're lowlifes that have nothing to race to."

"No. They don't speed because they can't risk it. Not with their livelihoods on the line, and not with the lives of all of the passengers on their shoulders."

"Are you a bus driver?"

Batman mutters under his breath, "Apparently so."

The batmobile climbs North along the edge of the park. Trees grid the view of Gotham's central reservoir.

Jay turns the radio's volume knob.

"...I can't tell you that. I'd have to hide out in an igloo the rest of my life. And you've seen the movies. Abonimable snowmen are not happy indoors."

"You listen to Abonimable?"

"Sometimes."

"I do too! At least, I do when Uncle R is away. He doesn't like us listening to the radio or watching TV when he's around. He says the news'll only say stuff to keep your eyes on the screen, not what makes you keep your eyes on the world."

"Smart man. Who's Uncle R?"

"He's the guy that runs the house."

"Will he-"

The metallic sound returns. Batman slows the batmobile.

Jay sits up in her chair?

"Will he what? Why are we slowing dow-"

"Shhh."

The sound stops. Batman brings the batmobile to a halt. He rolls down the window and listens.

A wind comes howling into the vehicle. The heaters fight the cold air, but it comes too quickly. He quivers.

No sound except the wind.

He starts the engine and moves slower than before, down from twenty five to fifteen. He keeps the window half down and waits for the the noise. But it doesn't return.

"Can I talk now? Why're the windows down?"

Batman shuts the windows.

"Yeah. You can talk now."

He presses the gas and revs to thirty.

"What were you-"

The sound returns. A breaking of ice and grinding of gears. Batman listens, and the sound doesn't go away. It rises. The grinding becomes a metallic thrashing. Cracks resound all around him. It grows to a deafening stampede. It's about to hit.

Batman dives out the door and slides along the ice, barely able to lift himself from the slick ground. He glances up.

Polished half-circle prosthetic legs weigh down the batmobile. Cleats attach it to the car's roof, protruding through the metal. A man's torn and burned torso meets the metal legs at the waist. New scars meet old scars like a map across his chest. Patches of freshly charred flesh strips fight to hold onto the red beneath, but constant rivulets of blood unhinge them. Cybernetic arms gleam from the little light spilling out of the batmobile. His nose is missing, with only a patch of pink flesh pinned over the center of his face. His ears are ragged halves of what they should be, zig zag tears straight up from the center of his lobe. He has one organic eye, and one polished ball of steel jammed into its socket. A point of green light focuses out from the ball's center.

The cyborg hops down from the roof and slams into the ice. It cracks as he hits the ground, from a weight unreasonable for a man of his size. The impact flings droplets of blood across the ground, staining the ice.

Sweat runs down his neck, freezing and melting, working a long path down his short human form.

He speaks with harsh breath, timed with an exhaust that sprouts from his back. Smoke pours from it and surrounds him, melting the frozen sweat from what body he has left.

The engine runs harsh. His timing strained and rough.

"Cold...isn't it?"

Batman searches for an exposed wire or open joint. The legs don't show any signs of electronics, and the arms hide any weakness.

"I only remember...it being...this cold...once before."

Jay. Batman searches, but the looming monster blocks his view.

"Who are you?"

"You don't...remember?"

The engine coughs up smoke and the man coughs along with it. His body convulses. What flesh remains recedes into a frame of stringy muscle and bone. Fresh blood eeks out of the cracks in his skin and he fights back a cry.

"I think I'd remember."

Batman searches his face. Stares into the bright green light. It leaves an after-image on his retina. He looks at the face and body, but nothing comes to mind.

"Nathan...Finch."

Batman looks again. Nothing.

"Vermin...you can't...remember..."

Nathan's arm shoots out, fast as the piston of a car. It latches onto Batman's wrist and swings him over his head and into the batmobile, denting the shell. A sharp pain shoots up Batman's lower back. He arches, but one of Nathan's half circle legs presses into Batman's abdominals and pushes him flat against the car. The cleats dig into his armor. Nathan jerks Batman's arm.

"Noth...ing!?"

Batman struggles to come up with words. Nathan pulls Batman's arm further back. It starts to lift from its socket.

"I don't know!"

"Just like...vermin...where...you aren't supposed...to be...unwanted. You take...without regard...and leave...without knowing...the damage."

Nathan looks at the pitch black sky and dark grey buildings.

"Black...plague..."

Batman reaches for his utility belt with his free hand. Nathan plunges his other arm straight into it, pinning it against the car. Batman lets loose a wail.

"What do you want?"

"Two arms...two legs...and flesh...so ragged...you can't...even...be part...machine."

Nathan jerks Batman's arm back. A tearing sound rips from Batman's shoulder. Nathan and Batman scream as Nathan holds the black shell of the batsuit behind him. He looks back. Batman's naked arm remains, clenched in the cold. Blue veins blending into pale flesh as its color leaks out.

Nathan flings his robotic arm back at Batman, but Batman's already a half move ahead and turns onto his side. He curls his legs and in one push off the car slips the shell of his other arm attached to Nathan's remaining robotic arm.

Nathan turns to find Batman, but he's gone. He looks left, right, down. Up. Standing on the engine on Nathan's back, Batman is a figure covered in a shroud of exhaust. Everything black but for two exposed pink-blue arms.

"No..oooo...ooo..."

Batman reaches down and with his bare hands grabs onto two ends of a battery. The handles burn, hot enough to feel cold on Batman's hands. He groans and drops the battery to the ground, jumping off of Nathan's back as the lifeless exoskeleton crumples, Nathan along with it.

"So cold..."

Nathan's words aren't patterned by the exhaust from his engine. They are uttered through lips struggling against the temperature.

"So...cold...not..again..."

"Are you going to kill him?"

Batman turns and sees Jay approach from the other side of the car.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because killing him would be wrong."

"But Uncle R always says you should kill people who hurt you."

"Killing's for those who fear that good people can't contain the bad. And that fear leads many to join the wrong side."

"Oh. So what'll you do with him?"

"Normally I'd turn him over to the police."

Batman looks around at the emptiness.

He grabs the battery and walks over to the reservoir's edge. He drops it on top and slides it across the thick ice. It's warmth melts a thin layer of ice into a trail of water as it skates across.

He returns and stares down at Nathan, wounds frozen over, coloring him with shiny red crystals. His teeth chatter as his shoulder muscles fight to gain leverage.

Batman reaches into his utility belt and draws a knife. He puts one hand on the bare abdominals of Nathan, bends it back, and exposes wires connecting Nathan's torso to the exoskeleton.

Holes pockmarked in folded over flaps of skin fit thick wires coated in black, red, and yellow rubber. The holes themselves scabbed over, black and red crusts that blend with some of the wiring, half-peeled from the movement of the wires.

"No..."

Batman makes a few quick cuts and pulls the torso free of the cybernetic body.

"Let go."

As Batman slides Nathan out from the metal, he finds arms slipped into the robotic limbs. Thin atrophied twigs, barely more than bone, half pale from lack of light, half black and blue from the metal rubbings. They flap about, Nathan struggling for release from batman's grip, but they're too weak.

"Vermin..."

Batman drops him into the trunk of the batmobile and slams the lid. He looks back to Jay.

"It's the only place to hold him where he won't be a danger to others and can keep warm enough that he won't die. Once the police return I'll hand him over to the proper authorities."

Batman checks the dent in the car and gets back in. Jay enters on the other side. She taps her pointer against her chin.

"And if you forget, that solves the problem anyway."

Batman turns to Jay, but Jay knotches the knob on the radio up and lies back.

"Breaking news from Gotham, cause even the chill can't freeze the stream of word. Seems the fire of one flying rodent melts the snow, cause he just trunked a steamlord Gearhead. Must've grinded his gears. But a dancer's never still in a music box, else how could she perform when she jack in the box's out? And back atcha. Looking for a ring ring to tell me the best answer. Until then, a little from my music box."

Jay's eyes widen and she starts to speak, but becomes distracted by a rivulet of blood running down Batman's arm.

"You're bleeding."

Batman doesn't look.

"I know."

Jay pulls a flask from her coat and pours some of the liquid over Batman's arm. Batman recoils from the sting.

"What'd you do that for? And where did you get that?"

"Uncle R says it stings, but it makes a hurt better faster. And if you drnk it, it'll keep you warm in the cold."

Jay takes a hit from the flask. Batman snatches it from her hand, cracks a window, and dumps the contents.

"That's mine! Give it back!"

Batman returns the empty flask. Jay turns it upside down, peering into it for a drop.

"You're a bully. And I'm cold."

###

"Here it is!"

Jay unlatches the passenger side door and bounds toward a red brick building on the corner of eighty sixth and eigth. A dark stone sign mounted above the doorway, a few sprays of graffiti on its the base, and wooden window shutters the color of aged mold make up its only visible decoration.

Batman follows Jay to the door, holding a lamp in front of him, his arms now draped in his wool trench. Jay turns the knob and pushes the door open, unlocked.

"Uncle R took the key when everyone left, but there's no one around anyway."

Jay lifts the lid of a chest and draws a coffee mug out of it. She flicks a match and lights a candle propped inside.

Batman examines the ground floor. Exposed red brick, scuffed and stained with peach, red, green, and blue in inconsistent slashes paint the walls. The cement crusted more black than white.

Three foldable tables, splintered at the corners and with no rubber guarding the edges, attach at the center of a makeshift dining room. Papers litter the top. Mock drawings of the snoman with his knife, done in scratchy dull crayon, yellowed books with "ABC" on the fronts, their covers creased at the corners, and piles of loose papers marked in various states of finished letters, drawings, and the abstract.

Off one end of the table sits a couch and an armchair, both torn, ragged, and dirty. They face a fireplace and a stack of wood, the pokers jutting out from spaces in the logs to form the arms of a monster, with two paper cut eyes draped over the top.

Jay sits on the floor of the kitchen, next to the round wooden table surrounded by folding chairs and an opened cabinet filled with canned goods. Peas, corn, refried beans, crushed and diced tomatos, all with half-torn labels and large dents in their sides. Jay works at a can of garbanzo beans with a dulled opener. Shards of rust fleck off the old steel and fall into the newly formed cracks in the tin.

Batman reaches for the can, but before he has a chance, Jay bends the half-opened lid back and takes a drink, beans and salted water both. Jay holds out the can.

"Did you want some?"

"No. I'm alright."

Jay shrugs and drains it. She places the can on the floor and bolts out of the room.

"I'll be right back."

Batman pulls out a chair and sits. He hunches, but a pain in his lower back jolts him straight. He slips part of an arm out of his coat. The bare skin colored with bruises and red and white scratches. He slides it back into the arm of his coat, grimmacing as the wounds glide against the scratchy wool.

Jay storms in, brandishing two plastic swords.

"Do...you wanna play with me? I got these cool swords. Well, they were Joey and Michael's, but they left them and-"

"I'm sorry. I'm going to have to go."

"Oh..."

"I'll come back. You're safer here for now."

Jay drops the swords and sits back down on the floor with her can.

"It's OK."

"I really will be back."

"It's OK."

Jay picks up one of the swords and taps it against the tile. Its sound echoes through the room/

Batman moves to the door and opens it. The wind howls in, drowning out the sound of the toy and flickering the light of the candle in the kitchen.

"Jay, be careful until I return."

She doesn't watch as Batman shuts the door.

###

Batman parks the batmobile on an unlit block behind the repository. He steps out and the cold strikes. It works its way around his coat, over his arms, and into the batsuit's notches. It bites his skin and sucks the warmth from his blood. He buttons his coat and makes for the fence.

A grey fog blankets the repository. A blot of light fights through. Lit street lamps painted white with snow cast ghastly puddles of hazy yellow onto the streets.

Frosted glass covers the window of an unmanned security booth. Batman jerks the gate, but the frozen hinges don't budge. He kicks at them to crack the ice, but the fence merely rattles.

He grips the chain links and climbs, curling his fingers around the ice covered metal. Thin films melt with every touch. He forges his way higher. His mask cakes with snow. He shakes his head to knock the blinders from his eyes and his fingers slip. He slams against a hardened pack of snow on the sidewalk, landing on his curled lower back. He screams, then chokes back the cry, coughing as his throat fights the cold air.

He catches his breath and scans the mere yards he can see through the grey canvas. Just snow.

He starts back up the fence. Snow builds a new layer on his face. He climbs blind, face numb and fingers nearing it. He tightens a hand around a loose thread of wire and draws a wire cutter from his belt with the other. He snips a distance of it, stands on top of the fence, and jumps.

His coat catches and holds to a barb. The wool tears, but not enough. Batman's arms shoot up and slip from the sleeves, spinning him to the ground. He slows the fall with his arms. They bury into the snow and numb.

Inside the fence the pipes form a labyrinth of the compound. The metal coated with small round gauges, their arrows still.

Batman weaves through the meshwork, his numb arms flat against his waist. He stretches his fingers to circulate blood.

The warehouse looms large above him, its windows spilling light. No open entrances. He pulls a lockpick from his belt and works his way into a side door. The lock clicks. He cracks the door and stale iron wafts up his nose. He steps in.

The sound of flowing liquid fights against the howl of the wind. He peers back out the door and spots a small red arrow vibrating inside a gauge. The sound rises, and more of the arrows quiver. They don't stray far from their original position, frozen in place.

Batman lunges into the building and shields his eyes from the bright light. He cuts through empty hallways and small offices until he reaches the central area, an open expanse of concrete floor with a roof of exposed cross beams.

A click of leather soles against hard floor echoes through the warehouse. Batman makes for the shadows.

A young man in thin black dress pants, a crisp white button down, an orange tie, and a black varsity jacket with a "C" embroidered on one shoulder steps into the light. He sucks on the tip of an icicle, gripping it with a bare hand. It doesn't melt to his touch.

He's followed by two teenagers, a boy and a girl, each carrying a pistol at arm's length.

"May I ask who is there?"

Batman hides behind steel drums and stacked red gas canisters. He watches the group's approach.

"I only mean for a discourse."

The man turns and notices the teenagers aiming their pistols.

"Put those away you dolts."

The teenagers sheathe their guns at their hips. One addresses the man.

"Cap'n, you sure?"

"Did you learn nothing from our introduction? Proper etiquitte and sound judgment both indicate that one gather information before taking action. Our friend here must be well aware of that."

The man addresses the empty warehouse and shouts.

"I respect your strategy, ser, but I must inform you that I mean for nothing more than a friendly exchange."

Batman dives out from the shadows and tackles the man to the ground. The icicle sails out of his hand and taps along the floor. The teenagers move to draw their weapons, but Batman rips two batarangs from his belt and launches them at their sheathes. The guns clatter to the ground. The teenagers freeze.

Batman jams a forearm into the throat of the man.

"Who are you?"

The man sputters and points at his throat. Batman inches his arm back.

"Ser Bat. I do not suppose that you are the responsible party."

"For what?"

"Kaboom."

Batman lets his arm back a little more.

"Now if you would kindly remove yourself from my person, we might have something of a gentlemanly conversation."

Batman grunts and backs off, watching for movements from all three of them.

The man stands, brushes his chest, tucks in a shirt tail, then makes his way towards the fallen icicle.

"I think you came to a rather hasty and false conclusion, ser Bat. It is not me doing these deeds. Though I do find them to my liking. We merely want the forever winter."

"The forever winter?"

"Yes." The man retrieves the icicle, rubs it against his shirt, and sucks on it. "Whatever glorious contraption has provided us with this perfect climate."

"What do you know about it?"

"Enough. Penny enjoys the weather, but it's still too inconsistent for her. She must know for certain the weather will remain, else the venture poses too great of a risk."

"Who's Penny."

"A dear friend. Now, if you will excuse us, we must find the true owner before this place, well, disappears."

The man turns.

"Don't move."

The teens reach for their fallen pistols.

"Don't touch those."

The teens stand back up, leaving their weapons. The man sighs and turns back to Batman.

"I thought we discussed this. Our mutual purpose may have brought us together, but I see no reason for us to remain as such."

"Until I figure out what exactly is going on, you're all coming with me."

"I've never enjoyed crowds. These two are enough."

Batman draws another batarang from his belt and holds it at his side.

"I beg of you, please put away your toys. You are ill suited for this environment." The man points his icicle at Batman's naked arms. "Quite literally."

Batman steps towards the man.

"Before you venture another step, I must provide fair warning. When I was a boy of ten or eleven, Gotham underwent its coldest winter in decades. Well, besides now. Mounds of snow buried the streets. They were devoid of frolicking children because no family had coats suitable for the weather." The man holds his tongue against the icicle for a few moments. "I was playing outside, and I heard a shrill whining from beneath the snow. I dug and dug and discovered a small brown puppy. He was shaking. I tore his tags off, brought him home, and renamed him Brown. My naming has always been quite simple. I attempted playing with Brown, but he never stopped shaking. The only time his quivers slowed occurred when I cradled and pet him. But you see, I couldn't always hold him, and eventually, alone in the house, he stopped shaking." The man smirks. "You see, it wasn't until I was older that I learned how dangerous that cold was to others. It was always that way in my house. Eventually I realized why Brown passed on."

Batman stands motionless.

"Do you know why?"

Batman doesn't answer.

"Because I wasn't holding him."

The man sprints towards Batman. His arms flail, waving the sharpened icile in all directions. He moves fast. Inhumanly fast. Batman barely dodges the first thrust as the man reaches him, skids along the floor, regains his balance, and thrusts again. Batman reacts, but too slow. He dives to the ground, the skin of his left arm shaved by the icicle. A small wound, but the cold burns.

Batman rolls. The man catches up and raises the ice over Batman. He drives down hard. Batman takes it in his open shoulder. He screams as he whips a batarang at the man. The man jumps back to dodge it, but he doesn't come back down. He floats further back. A ringing echoes in Batman's ear and the roof of the building opens up to snow.

###

Batman works his eyes open. He moves to raise his arm. It won't budge. He throws his head back and sucks down air. Quick breaths become harsh coughs. Each cough fires a jolt of pain across his body. He looks down at his sleeveless arms. Blood runs from surface cuts and deep scratches, rolling down over black, blue, and red skin. A strong pressure works against his chest. Seering pricks crawl along his shoulder. Soreness spreads through his arms and legs.

He struggles in his chair. His wrists and ankles dig into twist ties and his body surrenders. He scans the area. An enclosed room. Low ceiling, exposed pipes, no windows. A basement. Icicles shaped like lightning bolts carve through the space, shooting out from the ceiling, the walls, and the floor.

Batman focuses on one running straight up from the concrete ground. Flaked at the edges. Cardboard. Crudely wrought cardboard cutouts shaded white and blue, the paint old and crusted, broken in sharp lines. Behind the cardboard icicles, through gaps in the latticework, stands an ice castle with uneven angled bricks drawn into its face. A triangular door and rhomboid windows with cantered cross beams its only decorations.

A shadow crawls along the cardboard cutouts. Batman turns his head, but can't get it around enough to see. The edges of his mask block his peripheral.

"You know, Bruce, we kissed once."

"Who are you?"

The man dances into view, sliding his polished black shoes against the floor. He wears a bright pink shirt tucked beneath a silver belt and yellow pin-striped pants.

He bends and presses his face inches from Batman's mask.

"And how do you know my name?"

"One at a time, but first," The man waves his hand across the cardboard display, "what do you think?"

"It's uneven."

"Reminiscent of anything?"

"A winter wonderland."

"Nothing else?"

"What do you want?"

"First, let me make good. My name is Lenny Fiasco. As for how I know yours, you reek of a familiar stench. You'd think with it being this cold you'd skip the shave. But I guess it must chafe under that mask." Lenny turns to face the diorama. "How's Celia?"

"Who?"

Lenny spins on his heel to face Batman. "Celia."

"Celia who?"

"Celia..." Lenny's hands clench into fists, "Smith."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

Lenny rips a pencil from his front pocket and slams it into an open wound in Batman's arm. The lead tip snaps against bone. Batman roars. He clenches, but other pains coarse through his body. He growls on each breath, tensing and twitching with every exhale.

Lenny retreats, leaving the pencil jutting from Batman's arm.

"Do you know how I got into Princeton? No, my Dad didn't donate a building like yours did. I didn't even have the grades. Chemistry. I never was very good at it. But that was its boon. All those exacting calculations, and I couldn't tell you how many experiments I botched. But, where chemistry is different from math, or history, or biology, is that when I messed up, I created something else. A series of screwups led me to your class. But more importantly, it led me to Celia's."

Lenny grips the pencil and presses, arching it up against Batman's flesh.

"Celia was...creative. When we were on the committee for the Ice Ball, and I screwed up the cutouts, she showed me that they were expressionistic. Different. And she was too. Oh so different from all my screwups before. With her, I knew I was right, and I had to get it right."

Lenny releases the pencil and rubs his thumb down the edge of a cardboard icicle. Bits of paper fleck off. He sighs.

"I wrote down a plan. Pencil and binders. I went through boxes of erasers getting it right. I would have her. I would get it right."

Lenny looks at the ceiling. At nothing.

"I cut bits of paper. Reams of it all up into tiny flecks. I perched them on a girder over the dance hall. Wired up fans too. I made calculations. Jumbled them so many times. And each time, I picked up all those little pieces and started again. Switch, clean, repeat. Until it was perfect. I caught her alone two weeks before the dance, turned it on, and watched her face as the bits of confetti floated down from above. She loved snow. She listened to me and said yes."

Lenny turns back to Bruce, eyes flairing.

"The day of the dance I knocked on her eating club's door at seven. She floated down the steps like you see in movies. Her dress whiter than fresh snow. When she was as far from me as you are right now, her face sunk. Seemingly of apology. Oh, I'm so sorry. I forgot."

Batman's ankles and wrists bleed as he works them against the ties.

"Forgot. It wasn't devestation that hit me. It wasn't anger, or sorrow, or anything else. I just wanted to forget."

Lenny grips the pencil. Batman stiffens.

"The next morning, it snowed. I had a visitor. It was her. Same dress but wrapped in a man's trench with snowy patches. She apologized again. I didn't respond. She kissed me on the cheek and left. But that smell. She didn't have the courtesy to shower. But you did. And shaved. She could've showered. She could've erased you from her. But she didn't. And that memory I could never erase. At least not with something as small as an eraser."

Lenny spins Batman by the pencil, enlarging the gap in his shoulder. Blood pours out. Batman's eyes glaze over, but he holds on to consciousness. The chair squeaks against the floor to face the other side of the room.

Batman's vision comes to. Metal arms churn large barrels. Rubber tubes dangle and cross in all directions. Bunsen burners flare beneath charred glass flasks. Liquids rise and sink, move forward and back, drip into small vials.

"Chemistry was, to me, the best eraser."

Batman struggles to speak between gasps and coughs. "What...have...you...done?"

"Erased."

Lenny moves to the desk.

"I still have a bit more to erase. Celia's nearly gone from mind. She just left a large black smudge."

Lenny places a glass beaker filled with amber liquid beneath Batman's chair and drops a remote detonator into it.

Batman works harder against the ties, but they don't budge. More blood trickles and pools on the floor in four neat pads at the chair's legs.

Lenny picks up a mock pencil, the eraser a large pink button.

"A blank sheet. Nothing better."

An icicle embeds itself into Lenny's forearm. He screams and tries to press down with his thumb, but his fingers won't bend. He loses grip of the pencil and it falls to the ground.

"Oddly warm down here. I highly doubt that ice will keep longer than a few short minutes. Well, less as I imagine your blood to be boiling."

Oswald creeps into Batman's view. No varsity jacket. His button down wrinkled, ripped, and stained with spatters of ash. A bow from his orange bow-tie dangles from a solitary thread. Black and blue mask his face and hands.

Lenny pushes against the ground and tries to stand, but falls back to the ground.

"Who are you?"

"I feel I must inquire the same of you. You must be a character, having the audacity to blow up an inhabited factory. No warning or introduction."

"Call me Eraser."

"Eraser. My name's Oswald Cobblepot. A pleasure to meet you."

Lenny eyes the embedded icicle. His hot breath melts slivers down its side. "The pleasure's all mine."

"Eraser, may I ask to see the forever winter?"

"The what?"

Batman works a bone in his thumb against a twist tie, weakening the plastic.

"The wonderful device that has provided, well," Oswald looks to the cardboard diorama, "this winter wonderland of sorts."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Oswald steps over to the fidgeting Eraser. "Then why have you been demolishing repositories with impunity?"

Oswald's eyes flash ice blue, a slight grimmace hidden behind a mask of bruises.

"It's my job."

"I doubt that improves our GDP."

"I get paid."

"Who pays you to destroy repositories?"

"Repositories, banks, houses, anything really. Nothing special about these. It's why they call me Eraser." He struggles up a leg of the table and sits, back arched against the wood, beneath the valves, gauges, and viscous liquids. "I erase all the evidence. I make the the crime disappear. All for just twenty percent of the take. I can give you a discount."

Batman bends his wrist back and forth against the weakened plastic. Millimeter by millimeter it tears, matched with blood leaking down his wrist.

Oswald places his hands on the work table and hovers over Eraser. A hand lands on a twistable remote detonator and mock pencil. He curls his fingers around them.

"Tell me then, what's twenty percent of a wrecked oil repository?"

"You think I ask the details? I just take cash. Nothing that requires storage or fencing. Though I wouldn't complain with twenty percent of the oil."

"And who might your employer be?"

"I don't know."

"Not good enough." Oswald picks up a flask and pours it over Eraser's head. The liquid crawls over his black strands of hair and drips onto his back and pants. He looks up, only for more liquid to splash against his nose and spider across his face.

Eraser sputters as he speaks, spitting as much as he can away from his lips. "I really don't know. I got a call and a wire."

Batman splits a twist tie. It falls off the arm of the chair. He works the other opened with his free hand.

"Did he employ you for any further jobs?"

"The last repo. Northern Limits."

"Time?"

"Tonight."

Oswald picks up a flaring bunsen burner. Holds it out over Eraser's head. "All those memories. They'll be erased."

Eraser crawls under the desk, leaving a trail of fuel winding across the floor. It rolls to Batman's chair, mixing with the blood dripping down the wooden legs.

Batman frees the final bond, stands, and lifts the chair up, sliding its legs out from the twist ties fastened around his ankles.

The chair falls back, and Batman forwards, legs buckling. He slows the fall with his arms, but they fold at the elbows. He works his way back to his feet and stares down Oswald.

"Don't."

"Ser Bat, you can't be serious? I don't believe he provided you the courtesy."

Batman doesn't move. His chin lowers, eyes glaring into Oswald's.

"Don't."

Oswald sighs and mounts the bunsen burner back on the desk.

Oswald moves for the door. Batman hobbles towards Lenny, bends at the desk, and faces the shivering figure.

"Lenny. I'm sorry."

Lenny's fists clench and he stops shaking for a moment. He looks out towards nothing.

Oswald bends, picks up the fallen mock pencil, and slides it into his pocket.

Lenny looks at Batman. "Bru-"

Batman punches him in the jaw. Lenny tries to speak, but only manages garbled sound. He increases in volume, mumbled obsenities barely decipherable.

Batman stands and limps to a door behind a carboard icicle. "Come on."

Oswald follows.

They shut the door and Oswald clicks the eraser. A boom slams the wooden door behind them. Bursts of light shoot out from below it. Batman turns and lunges for the door, but another sounds, and another. The door shakes, hinges loosen.

Oswald latches onto Batman's bloody left arm and heaves him up the stairs. Batman jumps, but Oswald throws him back.

###

Batman rides passenger in Oswald's antique open roadster. A thin layer of half-melted snow coats his seat and flurries smack him in the face as they cruise down empty roads, Oswald deftly navigating the car over the ice.

Batman wrenches the pencil from his shoulder and rifles through a half-rusted medicine case, pulling out ointments and bandages. He wraps his arms with yellow and crusted tape.

"Ser Bat, I'm sorry for what happened. Was he an old companion?"

Batman shoots Oswald a glance.

"Friendship has been known to draw in the reason."

"Where're the others?"

"Iced."

Batman stops wrapping.

"My apologies. A crude phrase I acquired from them. Sadly they didn't quite survive the blasts."

Batman wraps both arms down to his hands, then weaves the tape between his fingers and around his palms.

"Turn west."

"It seems I am filled with them, but I must apologize again, Ser bat. North is the appropriate route to the repository."

"My car's west."

"It will have to wait."

"The repo isn't going anywhere."

"You may be correct in that assumption now."

Oswald continues north, planing over ice with small accelerations near curbs.

"Turn west."

Oswald ignores him. Batman pulls a touchscreen device from his utility belt. He holds a power button until the screen comes to flickering life. He pokes the screen, but nothing registers. He breathes on his hands and tries again. Nothing. He grinds the tip of his finger between the thumb and pointer of his other hand and places his finger against the screen. The device shuts down.

"Iced I presume?"

Batman slides down in his seat and holds his arms against the cold.

"I have accomodated the car with one essential electornic luxury."

Oswald switches the knob of a radio. He turns it until the voice becomes audible over the smacking of the wind.

"...riddle of the hour. What do you get when you criss cross a Bat, a Penguin, and an Eraser? Ring in with those sweet voices. I get off to your guesses. You sound so...desirous."

Oswald turns to Batman.

"I feel we might have an advantage in this contest. Have anything capable of dialing in?"

###

Spotlights shine over a maze of pipes outlining the Northern Limits Oil Repository. The surrounding area sucks the spillage into grey darkness. The warehouse visible only as a black outline. No lights inside.

Oswald reaches high up the fence and climbs with ease. The links don't rattle. He perches atop a line of barbed wire and jumps, landing softly on a patch of snow.

Batman approaches the fence and grabs hold, fingers fighting to straighten. He pulls. A shooting pain rises through his back, shoulder, and arm. He falls back into the snow. He closes his eyes and lets the cold numb the pain.

Oswald walks over and stares at Batman through the fence.

"You should put some ice on that."

The sound of leaking steam cuts through the dark's silence.

Oswald moves to the pipes.

Batman pushes himself to his feet. "The meters. What do they say?"

Oswald taps against the glass of a round dial. "They lack motion, but for a twitching in the negative direction."

Batman reaches into his belt and draws out a black plastic pill. "Drop this in."

He hands the pill to Oswald through the fence. Oswald examines it, then moves to a large sewer drain. He wrenches the lid and the sound of rushing liquid whips out of it. He looks down, holding the pill over it.

"Throw it in."

Oswald looks at Batman and tosses the pill in a mound of snow.

"How about a good old fashioned race?"

"No."

Oswald presses his palms together above his head and dives into the drain.

Batman throws a hand up high on the chain link fence and pulls. The pain returns. He throws his other hand up. The fence presses against cracked ribs. He groans and pulls.

He reaches the top and, without looking, grabs onto a barb. He yells and presses himself up and over. He falls into the snow and crawls over to the pill. He looks down at the rushing liquid. No sign of Oswald. He drops the pill into the drink, draws a tracker from his belt, and switches it on.

It comes to dim life. He rubs its side, muttering under his breath. It holds steady and a red dot crawls along the screen. It accelerates, then stops along the outer rim. South.

Batman flies up the fence and over, accepting another fall.

He tears open the door of Oswald's vehicle and starts it. His hands slide along the wheel, slippery with blood.

He turns and accelerates. The rear wheels slide and lose control. No chains to tear into the black ice.

He steadies his breath and makes small movements. He accelerates to ten miles per hour. The car slides back and forth. Batman doesn't touch the brakes.

The tracker's beep fades. He speeds up. The tires lose grip and the car planes to the side. It smacks into a curb and stops.

Batman sits still. The engine churns smoke into the grey darkness.

He throws the wheel towards the crub and floors the gas. The car lurches onto the sidewalk into a mound of snow reaching up to its hood.

He shoots down the sidewalk, the side of the car licking fences, stoops, leafless trees, and lamp posts. Snow flies off the front of the car and blankets the front seats.

He reaches a park and cuts in, accelerating until the untouched powder sails up the front of the car fast enough to blend with the snow from above. Falling, rising, sliding.

The car whips out of the park back onto the icy street. Batman kicks his heel to the pedal and the engine roars to life. He grips the wheel tight enough to force blood from his hands. His movements slight enough that the blood drips straight down onto his thighs.

Batman glances down at his tracker. The light starts falling back from the edge of the screen. Catching up. It eases its way to the center of the crosshair, then rockets to the left.

Batman breathes in then slams the break. The car skates out of control, spinning in circles down the street. It slams into the side of a parked and frozen sedan, careens off a white van, and jumps to two wheels. Batman taps the gas. The car drops to all four.

Batman braces himself as the car barrels against an SUV, the rearview mirror cutting over the passenger side door. A jolt shoots up Batman's palm through his tricep and his fingers unlatch. They slip and his forehead smacks into the wheel.

He calms. He move his fingers, then his wrist. The engine cuts out and the pistons die. Nothing but silence and the tracker's steady beeps.

Batman opens the car door and steps out, catching himself as he slips along the street's ice. The beeps increase in frequency. He continues, skating to the sidewalk, then pushing his legs through the waist high powder.

###

Batman walks in the darkness. He hears a howling wind mixed with rushing liquid. He approaches the sound and kneels over its source. He brushes his hands over ribbed metal. A sewer grate. He peers over. Air rushes from it, fast enough to dry out his eyes. He draws glasses from his utility belt and flicks a switch. His vision flickers, throwing patchworks of green against the blackness. In and out. Dark waves flash green. He leaves the nightvision on for moments of clairty.

A long sleek car flashes into view on the other side of the street. The Batmobile. Its driver-side door swung opened.

Batman looks to his left and right. Nothing.

He approaches it, surveying the scene with every step, catching images of the dark street in strobes. The sound of rushing air deafening.

He peers into the car. The seat is wrenched as high as it can go. He moves for the trunk and opens it.

The smell of old iron crawls around the lid and up Batman's nostrils. His nightvision fades in and he sees a pool of viscous liquid surrounded by splotches and stains. Blood. He slams the lid shut.

Batman slides out to the middle of the road. He reaches an ice covered manhole, removes a metal bar from his belt, and flicks it. An ice pick switches out. He thrusts it deep into the thick covering and works around the circle. He carves angled holds in its center.

He grips the ice by the holds and deadlifts. His heels dig into the ice and start to slip. He tightens his quads and pushes, searing pains shoot through his legs and back. Wind rushes out of the seams as he lifts, cutting into the slits between his pants and boots. He twists and the block falls, jamming itself upright into the middle of the hole.

He moves to the side and wrenches his shoulder until the iron circle pops out and rolls down the road.

Batman drops into the hole. He splashes in waist high liquid. His feet slip on the icy bottom and the liquid sends him floating. The air lashes his nose with a toxic fume. It rushes past his face, flakes of ice slashing his lips and eyelids. He shuts his eyes and lies back into the fuel. It creeps along the curves of his mask, cutting around the glasses. The cold acid burns his chapped skin.

He covers his face with parted fingers and blinks his eyes open for glimpses. Green images flash. An arched roof. A long tunnel. A white light strobing at the end. It alternates in his visor from visible when the night vision flashes off to a white screen when it flashes on.

Batman disables the night vision and watches through narrowed eyes as he approaches the source.

The tube spits him out. He sails off into the air and splashes in more of the liquid. He tries to stand. No bottom. He sinks to his mouth and tastes the mix of bile and fuel. The light strobes and he sees an edge of concrete littered with trash mounds, thin strands of debris fingering the air, brushed by the wind.

He paddles his way to an edge and lifts himself out of the liquid.

The gales become a temptest as Batman claws his way towards the strobing light. It reflects off the icy walls, each flash blinding. He struggles to step over the mounds, one leg barely enough to hold him against the wind.

It presses, cold and strong enough to be a wall of ice. His numbness fades into a prickling underneath his skin. He punches his arms and legs forward.

"This cold. It's like I've never felt."

Batman looks into the darkness. The light flashes and illuminates the area. And for the first time, Batman sees the trash.

Girls. Young. Their arms and legs folded and spread. Naked. White as ghosts. Their hair blowing in the wind. Eyes frozen. All blue.

Oswald stands among dozens of them, his skin pale and flecked with spots of ice. He remains motionless, straight, letting the wind rush over him.

Batman falls to a knee. The light flashes, his face inches from a lifeless corpse. He puts down an arm to hold him against the wind. His body loosens and the cold seeps in. "What..." His throat chokes up, half from the cold air freezing the back and roof of his mouth. The words cotton.

"This must be the source. As to the proprietor, I have yet to make introductions. After incurring the cardio swimming the channels, I felt that an adequate fill of cold sport drink would fulfill me, but this may be too much."

Batman throws his fists into the ground.

He rises onto quivering knees and his body lurches forwards. He crawls over the bodies on hands and knees. He reaches a brick wall and slams his hands against it. He pulls himself up and moves, hands spread onto the walls for support.

Oswald follows, his steps slow but smooth.

Batman pushes against the wall to a man sized hole, the source of the light and wind. He claws through, latching fingertips onto the uneven juts of cracked rock, brick, and concrete lining the cave. Oswald follows, using the walls for support.

Dust and pebbles ping against Batman's armor and skin. The strobe fades and something hits his adam's apple. He chokes in air, but quickly coughs it back up, moisture flying back into his cheeks as frozen droplets. He shuts his mouth, fighting for saliva, his throat burning to swallow.

The light returns, a blinding blast that draws Batman's pupils to pinpoints. He makes out the shape of a table and a mound on top. The curves of a girl. He groans against the pain, grips the wall, and pulls.

The image grows larger. A mass of chrome behind the table streaks the light in all directions. Something steps in front of the light and blocks it out, only the streaks visible.

Batman makes the final reach for the opening and falls into the room. He gets to a knee and the figure steps from the light.

The large room illuminates a domed roof high above the ceiling of the narrow cave. A monstrous machine, silver and black, shoots up into the middle of the dome, stabbing the roof and extending further. Its metal parts shake under pressure of the wind spilling out of it in all directions, swirling the room into a vortex.

Tables bolted into the rock floor. Lab equipment tied to the tables. A girl lying face up on the table, her chest rising in slow motion. Alive.

The skeleton of a ghost approaches Batman. Skin so white his facial features blur into a pale blank mask. His ribs protrude over the flat of a stomach joined to backbone. An aura of icy air swirls about his body. He moves with a slow elegance, ease enough to be floating. He stands face to face with Batman and speaks, his voice like cracking ice.

"Batman."

Batman musters his strength and throws a punch, straining to gain power in the rush of cold air. The skeleton deflects it with a flick of his bony arm and Batman falls to the ground. His cracked rib slams against a rock. He presses his knees to his chest and lies on his side. He tries to roll over, but the pain and soreness fight back.

Oswald steps into the room and leans an arm against the entrance, breathing deeply, chest heaving.

"Oswald?"

Oswald narrows his eyes at the figure.

"Victor. My goodness. You look...cool."

"With Batman. Why?"

Oswald drops his arm from the entrance and lifts a leg to step towards Victor. He struggles to move his leg into the wind. He surrenders and returns his arm to the wall.

"We've become acquaintances, but I wouldn't say we arrived as one party. In fact, I believe I arrived first. But I digress, Ser Bat must've chosen to arrive fashionably late. He dislikes being the one to first break the ice."

"How's...Penny?"

"She's quite chipper with the promise of a neverending white Christmas. Why did you never install such a wonder in our home?"

"Only one."

"Would you be inclined to sell it?"

"No."

"Barter?"

"No."

"Donate?"

"No."

Oswald clenches. His eyes flash blue. He breathes the cold air and loosens.

"On the trestle, is that...Nora?"

"Nora." Victor stares at the table. "Nora." He leans over it. "Nora." His eyes tear up, freezing to his blank face. The light glints off the two rivers curving over invisible ridges.

He latches his bony fingers around her ankles and spins, his white muscles flex, blue veins doubling in diameter. The body lifts from the table with a snap of leather. He hurls her across the room. She careens off a wall in the tunnel. The shattering of bones coarses through the room and echoes off the walls. The body pings off the other side and rolls out the entrance.

He stands hunched, breathing deeply.

"He didn't know my Nora. He knew the old one. The warm one. The one that died."

Batman growls, lips clenched to protect his throat from the scathing wind. "Who?"

Victor crouches down to Batman's level. His blank face inches from Batman's mask. Batman prepares a punch, but halts. Victor's movements too easy. His too hard.

"Her husband. Her widow. Wanted her warm."

Victor sits. Buries his face in his hands.

Oswald drops his head.

"Victor, I'm sorry. Ser Bat, don't you peruse the science and technology sections of the Gotham Times?"

Batman swallows. "Sleep during day. Old news by night."

Oswald sighs. "Dr. Fries is the foremost expert on cryonics, and occasionally a purveyor of AC systems. He researched in a laboratory of Wayne Enterprise's medical branch. He sought after a young lady in cryostasis. The wife of a wealthy patron. Wayne Enterprises halted subsidies of the project, and the wealthy did not wish to continue what he refered to as a...poor investment."

Victor puches the ground, denting the floor. "One morning. Gone. No one consulted me. Me. My sickle fingered Nora."

Victor lies against the ground to watch the stream of wind shoot up through the hole in the ceiling.

Batman reaches. His fingertip touches Victor's ankle, cold enough to burn. Victor launches upright and wrenches Batman's hand away. He hurls Batman back against the stone wall near the entrance. Batman screams and crumples to the ground.

Victor stands, hunched, and a blue flame burns in his eye. The wind tangles around his arms and legs. He grips Batman by the throat and lifts, tearing Batman's back against the wall. "What a lonely life you must live. No fingers warm or cold to touch you. All bundled in your suit. Mask covering your face. Take it off. Let the cold leave a tingle on your cheeks."

Batman opens his mouth for air, but the wind rushes in and freezes his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It spreads, ice clawing down his throat, sticking the muscles. His lungs pump, but nothing above his shoulders offers any movement.

The ice slithers, climbing into his chest, halting his lungs.

Victor glares at Batman, eyes coming to life as tiny specks of blue in white paper.

The freeze coarses further, upper arms, elbows, forerarms, stomach.

Batman presses his thumb and forefinger together in quick jerks. Oswald looks to Batman's face, but its frozen solid. Not even his eyes move. His body struggles to quiver. Batman's fingers freeze.

Oswald tenses and works a hand into his pocket. He digs and withdraws an eraser shaped capsule. He jerks his thumb and forefinger around it. It lights up and lets loose a high-pitched whine.

Oswald screams and pushes his arm into the wind as far as he can. He releases the capsule towards Batman and Victor.

The capsule rolls to Batman's feet. Oswald clicks the eraser of a mock pencil.

Batman bursts into flame, the oil soaked into his suit and skin blazing. The wind fuels it and the flame shrouds Batman in red and orange. It fires down Batman's legs, up his arms, his neck, his face. Victor recoils from the heat.

Batman's muscles melt. The moisture returns to his throat. He screams and charges into Freeze.

Victor sidesteps, dodging the ball of fire. Batman throws a punch. Victor blocks it with his arm. The heat burns and he pulls back. Batman finds the opening and lets loose a hail of blows. Exposed ribs crack. Victor's thin layer of iced skin melts. Batman knees Victor's thigh. It slams bone. He uppercuts Victor's jaw. The blaze subsides and Batman falls.

###

Batman draws an eye open. The other follows. A blurred cave.

He pushes his hands against the ground. His fingertips penetrate a thin layer of liquid. The pain hits. The rock floor cuts into his skin and the liquid burns. He lies still, but the recognition grows. His chest pounds. The small motions of his face and throat crack inside.

He takes a breath. His mouth dry. He moves his jaw. Works spit around his mouth.

He shifts his eyes. No people. No movement. Nothing.

No wind.

No cold.

No numbness.

His legs refuse to move.

He eases a touchscreen from his belt. Checks the time. Hours gone.

He moves a finger. A hand. Each twitch a struggle.

A toe. A foot. An ankle. A knee.

He places a hand to the ground and pushes himself to a knee. Soreness in every joint. Each movement a painful challenge.

He stumbles around the room. Groans with every motion.

The device gone. Only detached pipes leaking a stream of fuel onto the floor.

He coughs. The air mostly fumes. It cuts into his throat and he goes into a fit. The coughs rack his body. He falls to his hands and knees. His joints stiffen, movements like sandpaper between his bones. His lungs struggle.

He finds a rope ladder at the far wall. He climbs, resting between each rung. Every pull shoots seering pain down his arms, legs, and back. The twine cuts into his fire burned skin. His muscles shake. He nears the top and his whole body quakes. His hands threaten to slip. He makes it up the last few rungs and rolls onto the floor, breaths fast, body spent.

A dark room, lit only by the lower cave's table lamp leaking rays of yellow through the hole in its ceiling. Bits of chrome reflect the small light source, coloring slices of the room. Microscopes, large computers, and a massive glass cube. A cryo lab.

The basement of one of Wayne Enterprise's medical branches. Batman finds the stairs and climbs three flights to reach the building's garage.

It's empty but for a few large white vans and a couple black company sedans. Batman draws an electronic key from his belt, opens the door of a black sedan, and slides the key into the ignition. He turns it.

The engine doesn't turn over.

Batman tries again. And again. Nothing.

He pops the lid and removes the battery. He pulls a butane torch from his belt and holds it inches from the battery. He fires it up and works it around the battery. He feels the shell and slides the battery back into the car.

He turns the key. The car revs to life.

He switches on the radio.

"All you nocturnes still craving to be wooed by my words, have I got some that'll make you wet. Melted snow. Ho ho ho yes. Enjoy your white powder? You'll need a new supplier, cause Mr. Freeze is iced. Winter break over. All you kids best finish up that homework. Reality's back."

Batman drives out of the garage and onto the streets.

A moon creeps through grey clouds, spilling a blue glow onto the puddles of melted ice pockmarking the blacktop.

He pulls up beside the Batmobile and rolls down a window. He wrenches the gas cap open, slips a towel inside, holds his butane torch out, and lights it.

###

Batman drives to eighty sixth street. Posters melt off poles to become wet confetti littering the roads.

The moon falls. Dawn rises.

A brick smashes into the windshield, spiderwebbing the glass. Batman jerks the wheel to the right and stops. He cracks his window. The sound of raining debris leaks in. Dust and dirt flow down the street.

Batman spots the red brick building, and the one before it. The one that's caved in. The source of the dust.

He stops the car and stares out through narrowed eyes, searching the dust cloud. Nothing.

He starts towards the orphanage, eyeing the wreckage.

A shadow leaps out of the cloud and onto the orphanage's rooftop. It nears the chimney.

Batman races for the narrow between the two buildings. He finds holds on protruding brick and works his way up. The pains return. They wake him. He fights on and swings his legs onto the roof.

He stares down the figure.

"Stop."

The figure turns, and faces Batman, swinging a canvas sack behind him.

"B...Batman?"

Batman steps towards him. He slides a batarang from his belt and pinches it between thumb and pointer.

"Don...don't come any cl...closer."

Batman takes a step.

The man's face is dark. He holds a bottle of lighter fluid in one hand, a mini butane torch in the other. He wears a thin brown trench over a thick brown suit. Brown pants, brown belt, brown pleather shoes.

"Put your hands on the ground."

"No..."

Batman draws his arm back. A jolt of pain courses through his forearm and tricep. His fingers slip, but he snatches the batarang back.

"Wai...wait."

The man bends at the knees. He puts his arms out, still grasping the torch and lighter fluid.

"I...I'll put th...them d...down."

Batman lets his arm drop to his side. The man bends further. He rests the bottle on the ground. Then moves the torch down.

He spins the torch's knob against the ground and squeezes the bottle. Flame leaps into the air.

Batman flings a batarang, but the pain returns and throws off his aim. The batarang sails off the building into the spreading cloud.

Batman draws another. A fireball sails towards Batman. He dives out of the way. His leg jerks and he tumbles, grabs hold of the roof ledge, hanging by one hand.

The fireball explodes on impact and sprays a blazing mist. Batman shields his eyes. It burns out and Batman swings back onto the roof. He searches the horizon. Nothing.

Batman climbs down into the cloud of dust. He follows the wall and feels his way to the front door. He knocks. No answer.

He turns the knob. It's open.

"Jay?" No answer. He walks through the rooms. Up the stairs. Into the kitchen. "Jay?"

Nothing.

He leaves the building. The cloud of dust starts to dissipate. He walks through the street. Looks down. Blood.

Droplets turn to streams. He follows it. The blood spilled in larger puddles. He finds an arm lying in a pool, severed to the shoulder, wrapped in layers of old coats. Its drained hand pale, clenched, and small. A batarang juts out from the shoulder, embedded in the flesh.

"Jay!" Batman screams. He runs around the area, hobbling on weak legs. "Jay!" He searches each corner. Nothing. He tears at his mask, ignoring the pain on the burned skin of his hands. Smears of blood streak across his face.

He looks for a trail of blood past the shoulder, but it ends in the pool. The snow past it marked with nothing but a single glint. He looks closer at the glint. A washer.

"Jay!"

###

"The night ends, the cold ends, and I end. It's been a long night. But don't cry real liquid tears. It's a day of celebration. A day to run through the empty streets and fill it with shouts. A day of return. Spread new posters. Rob some banks. Let loose your well-made plans. Cause though a certain night friend suffered some ragged wings to fight through the cold, you can only fly up. And feel free to light up those fireplaces again. I hear the Firebug is done for now. But his story is one too sad for now. Tune in next time for some crimewaves straight to your dome piece. Abonimable out."

Batman stops the car in front of Wayne Manor. Opens the car door.

Alfred walks down the steps. "I should ban you from entering when the weather is this nice."

Alfred catches sight of Batman's shredded suit. His missing sleeves. His burned and bloody arms and hands.

"Alfred..." He unbuckles his seatbelt. Moves to leave the car. "Find..."

He falls to the ground, closes his eyes, and sleeps.


End file.
